Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  “At first, the crowd cheered, thinking Telemachus was a clown running around for their entertainment. But eventually, they began to boo and hiss as Telemachus continued to insert himself between combatants, trying to stem the flow of blood.”

  Brad sensed that this story had revived the jurors’ interest. None fidgeted; none looked away.

  “I object,” Strobel finally announced. “This is supposed to be an opening statement, not story time.”

  Brad was sure story time was now over, but the mercurial Ichabod surprised him.

  “I agree, Mr. Strobel,” she said harshly. “But you should have made that objection a long time ago. By now, you’ve waived your objection. Mr. Carson, you may finish.”

  Brad figured Ichabod just wanted to know how the story ended. She could always gut its usefulness with a few well-placed words later.

  “Thank you, Judge.” Then Brad turned back to the jury, slipping out from behind the podium, wielding an imaginary sword. “Anyway, one of the gladiators got frustrated with this awkward little monk and ran him through with a sword. But even as Telemachus lay on the floor of the Coliseum in a pool of his own blood, he thought not of himself but only of those gladiators and of his mission that had now become so clear. And as life left his little body, with his dying breath, he lifted up his hands and begged one last time—” Brad lowered his voice, closed his eyes, and lifted weary arms ever so slightly—“‘In the name of Christ, forbear.’

  “A funny thing happened that day in the Coliseum. Disgusted by the bloody slaughter of an innocent monk, a spectator got up from his seat and left the Coliseum, never to return. He was followed by another and another and another. One by one, the spectators all rose silently in protest and left the bloody place. And history records, that from that day forward, the bloodletting in the Coliseum ceased forever.”

  Brad stopped speaking and stood perfectly still, letting the solemnity settle over the courtroom. The enormity of their task descended heavily on the jurors, as Brad stood before them with imploring eyes.

  “In a real sense, you have been called, like Telemachus, as one man or one woman to make a difference. History will judge your verdict—”

  “I must object,” Strobel said forcefully, rising to his feet. “This is totally improper.”

  “Will you have the courage to end the bloodshed and violence?”

  “Sustained!” Ichabod said. She slammed her gavel. “Mr. Carson, that is quite enough!”

  “Are you willing to look at this animal, Mr. Aberijan—”

  “I object,” Strobel yelled. “The court has ruled. This is insane!”

  “Mr. Carson, not one more word!”

  “. . . and say, ‘In the name of justice—forbear!’?”

  “That does it,” Ichabod screamed. “In my chambers. Now!” She bolted from the bench, her black robe flying behind her. She left a chaotic courtroom erupting in her wake, excited murmuring, reporters writing furiously, jurors sitting wide-eyed, and Strobel shooting daggers at Brad with his eyes.

  In the swirling madness, Brad walked quickly but calmly to his counsel table. He stopped next to Leslie, placed an arm on the back of her chair, then bent over and whispered in her ear.

  “I’d love to take you up on your offer for Friday night,” he whispered, “as long as I’m not in jail.”

  28

  ICHABOD TOOK sixteen and a half minutes to restore the integrity of the court. She needed ten minutes to deliver a vicious tongue-lashing to Brad. Another minute and a half for Brad to write his check for ten thousand dollars, payable to the U.S. District Court, for his contempt citation. Then five minutes for Ichabod to lecture the jury and ensure that Brad’s shenanigans had not improperly influenced them.

  “What the lawyers say in opening statements is not evidence,” she explained. “And that is especially true if they resort to extraneous matters like telling stories about unrelated events. On the other hand,” she warned, “you should not punish lawyers with an adverse decision just because they ignore the orders of the court and wreak havoc in the courtroom.”

  Ichabod assured the jury that she would take care of such offenders, as she had in this case. It was their job to focus on the evidence in the case and nothing else. After setting the jury straight, Ichabod called for another short recess.

  * * *

  When court resumed, Strobel walked confidently to the podium, knowing precisely what he had to do. Years of experience had taught him that when you represent an unpopular defendant, you appeal to logic, not emotion. Take the heat out of the case. Become the master teacher. Reason with your friends on the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—” Strobel’s baritone voice filled the courtroom—“there are two sides to every case. That’s why you took an oath to keep an open mind until you hear all the evidence.” Strobel stood erect behind the podium, a model of decorum. “One of your greatest tools in your search for truth will be your own common sense. Don’t allow Mr. Carson’s emotional appeals to alter what your common sense tells you is true.” He paused and searched the jurors’ faces, looking for an implicit promise that they would indeed follow their common sense wherever it took them.

  “Don’t be afraid to ask the hard questions as you evaluate the evidence. Why would Ahmed Aberijan and his officers inject Charles and Sarah Reed with cocaine? The Reeds lied to get into Saudi Arabia and broke the law in their attempts to convert Muslims. What the Reeds did was blatantly illegal under Saudi Arabian law, and everyone knew it. Mr. Aberijan had every right to arrest them and deport them. He certainly didn’t need to fabricate a drug charge to do that.

  “And why would he allegedly torture them and then take them to a hospital for treatment? If he wanted to kill them, as Mrs. Reed claims, why would he take them to a hospital so they could get treated and survive?

  “And why, if Mrs. Reed and her husband were just innocent victims, did the arresting officers have abrasions and contusions, including scratches inflicted by Mrs. Reed’s fingernails and a large gash on the face of an officer from a punch thrown by Charles Reed?

  “And where is the corroboration? Where are the witnesses? There are none to back up Mrs. Reed’s fabrications. Yet numerous members of her alleged church have testified against her. They have confirmed that the so-called church was only a front for a powerful drug ring.”

  Strobel rolled highlights from the deposition videotapes. The jury soaked in the words of the first witnesses they would hear testify.

  He took an hour and a half to methodically walk through the evidence he intended to introduce during the trial. It was show-and-tell time. He did his best to juice it up with multicolored charts and enlargements of documents, but as the minutes ticked by, several of the jurors checked their watches and began to fidget. Strobel noticed them stirring and decided to wind it down.

  “I will close with a story too,” Strobel said. “But mine is a true story. It is the story of a twenty-first-century Muslim who has served his country well for many years. It is a story of how that man did his job, broke up a drug ring in his country, and had to endure vicious lies and accusations by a greedy plaintiff’s lawyer in another country. It is the story of how that devoted Muslim and faithful civil servant put his faith in the American system of justice and in a jury that has promised to look at the evidence with an open mind and render an unbiased verdict.

  “You will write the last chapter of that story, and you will determine whether our system can survive the test of being fair to those who think and believe differently than we do. You can write a chapter for religious freedom by honoring the freedom of the people of Saudi Arabia to chose their own religion and worship their own God, free from Western imperialism.”

  Strobel paused, looked the jurors directly in the eye, then strode confidently to his seat. Juror number four nodded his head in support as he rocked back and forth. The others cast thoughtful but suspicious looks toward Sarah Reed.

  * * *

  The rules of elev
ator etiquette had established themselves during the two days of jury selection. The lawyers and contending parties would let the jurors and spectators take the first few elevators down. Sarah Reed and her team took the next, reserving the last elevator for Ahmed Aberijan, Mack Strobel, and the rest of the defense team. As the participants headed to lunch after the opening statements, they followed the same unwritten protocol.

  As a critical part of the plaintiff’s team, Aberijan’s informant joined Brad and the others on the elevator, all facing front, all carrying their briefcases, all waiting for the doors to close. Nobody said a word, but she could sense that the team would erupt in high fives and backslapping as soon as they got some privacy. Brad’s opening fell nothing short of masterful.

  But as the doors began to shut, a hand reached in and pushed against the rubber safety strip on the inside of the doors. The doors sprang back to reveal a beefy, middle-aged man who had been sitting in court behind the defense table. Ahmed Aberijan stood at his shoulder. Amid quizzical looks from Brad’s team, the two men boarded the elevator.

  Ahmed moved to the back wall, stood next to his informant, and silently watched the lit floor signs as they descended.

  What’s going on here? Is he trying to intimidate me?

  She wanted to lash out at him, give him a piece of her mind. Such a bold move would enhance her cover, make her a hero to the others. But nobody said a word; they all just stared straight ahead. And as the doors opened at the ground floor, Ahmed and his ridiculous little sidekick stepped off first.

  “What was that all about?” she said just loud enough for Ahmed and his partner to hear.

  “Who knows?” Brad said.

  She found out right after she had ordered lunch.

  When she reached for her briefcase to retrieve some documents, she discovered a legal-size manila envelope wedged in the outside pocket.

  Suddenly the conversation around her faded in the background, like she was operating out of some deep well. She had to know what was in that envelope. Nothing else mattered. With a catch in her voice, she excused herself. She retreated to the rest room and opened the envelope carefully in a small stall. The note was short and to the point. Ahmed apparently thought he was back in control.

  The bugs are useless and create a grave risk. Remove them immediately and return them to us. We need details on the plan for Shelhorse. Meet at the same location, Friday at 8:30 a.m.

  She read the letter twice. And she trembled. She was clearly in over her head, but she could not turn back now. She didn’t like Ahmed’s boldness in contacting her. She didn’t like his giving the orders. This was not her plan. Things were happening too fast. She needed to think straight. She needed to act fast. She needed to get back in control.

  * * *

  Sarah told her story beautifully. She and Leslie started with the events of the night on which Charles died, and Sarah recounted those events with precise memory of what she had seen and heard. She told of the Muttawa raid, the beatings, the attempted rape, and the events at the hospital later that night. Her unconsciousness, of course, left a huge gap in the story surrounding Charles’s actual torture.

  Sarah hardly looked or acted like a drug pusher. She seemed on the verge of tears throughout the emotional part of her testimony but broke down only once, as she recounted learning about the death of her husband. Sarah was blessed with a slender build and looked absolutely diminutive as the large witness stand and the massive grandeur of the courtroom dwarfed her. Leslie thought she could sense an almost palpable empathy flowing from the jury box.

  After the emotional testimony about the Muttawa raid, Leslie took Sarah through an hour of background information about her life with Charles and their mission work in Saudi Arabia. This part of the testimony gave Sarah emotional downtime and allowed the jury to gear up for the emotional dam that would burst when Sarah talked about her children.

  “I loved the Saudi people,” Sarah testified, “and I believed my calling was to share the greatest thing that had ever happened to me with them. Charles and I were called to take the gospel to the land of Saudi Arabia.”

  “Did you have much success at first?” Leslie asked.

  “It depends on how you define success,” Sarah explained. “If you mean did we have a huge church right away—no. But if you mean were we able to reach out and help some folks who were walking through some tough times—yes. Our first convert was an elderly lady who had no family and no way to take care of herself. Meredith—that’s my daughter—and I would go sit with her for hours, listen to her stories, and while we were there, we would clean her house and cook some meals. We tried to take care of her without hurting her pride. At her own time, and in her own way, she came to Christ.”

  Throughout most of the afternoon, Sarah described the life of a missionary. The heartaches and challenges, the love for the people, the fear of the government. Strobel made a concerted effort to look bored. At 4:30, Leslie decided to end with the impact on the family.

  “How has Steven handled the death of his father?” she asked.

  Sarah’s top lip quivered. She dabbed at her eyes with a tattered Kleenex she had wadded up in her right hand and toyed with for the past few hours.

  “Steven misses his dad so much, but he tries hard not to show it. He’s had to grow up so fast. He sees himself as the man of the house. Every Saturday morning, when his buddies are off swimming or playing ball, he’s mowing the lawn and helping around the house. I try to be both mom and dad, but it’s not easy.”

  The tears rolled quietly down her cheeks.

  “With my schedule, I’ve told him he can play one sport in city league. He loves soccer. Last Saturday, his team lost a game on penalty kicks, and Steven missed his. I tried my best to console him, but he didn’t respond. As we drove off, I saw him looking out the passenger window at the field. He was watching one of the other kids who had missed his penalty kick too. The boy was out there practicing penalty kicks while his dad played goalie.”

  Sarah stopped for a second to wipe back some tears. Leslie found her own eyes burning.

  “I knew he was crying and missing his dad,” Sarah continued in a whisper, “because his shoulders were shaking. He kept his face to the window all the way home.”

  No one in the jury looked at Sarah now; her pain made them visibly uncomfortable. Leslie needed to move on, but she sensed Sarah was not yet done. She waited an extra beat.

  “It’s not easy raising a young man coming into adolescence without a father, even though I know God is the Father to the fatherless.”

  “Do you need a moment?” Leslie asked. Sarah was crying harder now.

  “No, I’d rather keep going,” Sarah answered through the sobs.

  “Tell us how Meredith is handling this,” Leslie asked gently.

  “Not as well as Steven,” Sarah confessed. “Meredith blames God. She asks questions I can’t answer. Like, ‘Why would God allow Dad to die if he was doing God’s work?’ She’s becoming rebellious and hard to control. She doesn’t want anything to do with church.” Sarah paused, searching for the right words. “Charles was always much better at handling her than I am. There’s something special between a father and his daughter. I don’t know what to do. . . . I feel like a complete failure as a mom. I’ve tried so hard—”

  Sarah couldn’t finish. As the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, the Kleenex no longer of any use, she simply repeated the words “I’m sorry” over and over.

  “May we take a short recess, Your Honor?” Leslie asked, fighting back tears of her own.

  “Yes.” Even the granite heart of Ichabod seemed to have been touched. “Court now stands in recess.”

  As the judge and jury filed quietly out, Leslie approached the witness stand and embraced Sarah. The two women hugged, mourning husbands they had loved and lost. For Leslie it was the first time in nearly a year she had allowed herself to cry over Bill. In an odd sort of way, she felt a release from her own guilt and a forgiveness that fl
owed as freely as the tears.

  * * *

  As he rose to cross-examine Sarah Reed, Mack Strobel knew the jury would despise him. But he also knew that Ichabod would call it a day in only thirty minutes, making it imperative for him to draw blood quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Reed.” He stood comfortably behind the podium, smiling at Sarah.

  “Good afternoon.” She did not return the smile.

  “I’d like to show you what has been marked for identification as Defense Exhibit 1. Do you recognize it?” Mack’s smile was now gone.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s the application I filled out to get a visa to live in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Your Honor, I would like to move this into evidence as Defense Exhibit 1. I also have an enlargement I would like to show the jury.”

  “No objection,” Leslie said nonchalantly.

  “Is that your signature at the bottom of the document?” Mack asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Looking at the third-to-last answer on the first page. Tell me what this document says you will be doing while in Saudi Arabia?”

  “It says ‘school administrator.’”

  “And isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Reed, that your primary reason for going to Saudi Arabia was to be a missionary and as a missionary to try to convert Muslims to Christianity?” Mack’s voice was loud and staccato, accusatory in its tone.

  Sarah’s answer was soft. “Yes, I went to be a missionary, but I did not intend to limit my work to Muslims; I wanted to share with anyone and everyone about how to be a Christian.”

  “You knew it was illegal in Saudi Arabia for someone to convert from the Muslim faith to Christianity, didn’t you, Mrs. Reed?”

  Sarah looked down at her folded hands. “Yes.”

  “And you also knew that if you put the word missionary on this visa application, you wouldn’t be allowed into the country. Isn’t that right?”